Artie threw Raymond a wolfish grin. ‘You still got that sharp tongue o’ yours, Ray. They haven’t completely turned you into a gent up here.’ He laughed. ‘It’s good to have you back.’

As Artie set to work, Raymond paced the room. Yes, he thought. This is . . . right. His doubts melted away now. Look at these plaques on the wall. The rewards for service. The golden carriage clock, a gift of the hotel board – the same board populated by Edgerton, by Astor, by poisonous, dangerous men just like them.

You’re their servant, Maynard. Taking their coin. Well, tonight that ends. And tomorrow there’ll be some richer tradesmen in the East End. Anyone whose son or daughter or brother or wife was roughed up on Cable Street. Anyone who’s had to struggle to survive while here we dined on venison and pheasant and caviar and champagne. There are going to be some lucky people at home tomorrow . . .

Something clicked. Artie was hunched over the open safe.

‘I thought you said there was jewels in this?’ Artie was frozen. ‘Papers? Ray, you stupid fool, you’ve had us come all this way, risk all of this, for . . . papers?’ Artie turned around to his brother. In his hands, where there should have been the glittering necklace Hélène wore each New Year night, the pearls that would have hung in her ears and the charms that would have dangled from the bracelets on her wrist, there were bundles of paper tied up in string, and yet more tucked inside a brown leather folder.

Papers? thought Raymond. But where are the pearls, the brooches, the diamonds . . . What use are papers? What could papers possibly be worth?

Raymond was about to take them from his brother’s hands – but another noise stopped him dead: the telltale of rat–a–tat knuckles being rapped on a door.

Raymond spun.

A familiar voice came from the other side. ‘Mr Charles, is that you?’

Mr Simenon. Raymond cringed.

‘Mr Charles?’ The knuckles rapped again – and now, to Raymond’s horror, he could see the door handle vibrate where, from outside, Mr Simenon’s hand had fallen upon it. ‘Mr Charles, it’s one thing for us mere minions to be up at every hour, seeing to the bidding of our guests, but . . . the days when you’d have to stay up all night, every night, just to make sure the hotel woke up in the morning – aren’t they over, Mr Charles? Mr Charles?’

Raymond and Artie exchanged a look, but before either one of them whispered a word, another noise silenced them both: the click of a key turned in a lock.

‘Mr Charles, are you really asleep at your desk again?’